


Porcelain Pieces

by lechatnoir



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A speculation of how things happen, from 4x05 onwards, or rather the relationship that's threadbare and torn to shreds by his broken porcelain hands, and it's only a matter of time before they both crash into one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porcelain Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> ovo; currently chrysanthemumskies over on tumblr.

I.

He remembers the feel of stones crushing through the fabric of his shirt, remembers the cold air that wraps around him like a soft fog, remembers the blood trickling down, breaths wheezing and clawing their way out of his lungs.

( I'll light a candle for you, every day.)

He remembers the way Mickey would look as he slowly walked away, glass bottle tossed into the bushes like an old lost reminder - lost and afraid and not the little punk who talked shit to anyone and everyone, not the little lion man who decided to roar at everyone about how indestructible he was when in fact he was just scared and afraid and was a mouse, not a lion.

 

(But he wouldn't tell anyone that.

He couldn't tell.)

He remembers - silent pleas and blood and no one but the old walls to hear their screams.

 

He thinks of lost boys who never had a home, only a star to wish upon, somewhere in the distance, far far away and never to be touched by his bloody hands.

 

ii.

He thinks he can laugh to himself, thinks sneaking in will be just fine.

 

No one's waiting for you back home, soldier.

He doesn't know why but there's this knot in his throat that won't go away, not as he steps off the bus and everything seems to drag him down, and it's as if the sky is painted grey and the sun doesn’t shine, only burns with the rays and there’s no familiar rumble of the El, no old grey concrete cracks along the rails, no weeds that poke out from the iron wedged fences. 

He thinks of walls that constrict and cut away at his throat, and he can’t breathe.

(You’re not ready little boy.) 

He doesn’t think, only knows that he needs to get away, and so he turns heel and runs.

Runs away, with only the roar of the helicopter motors to keep him company, combat boots hitting against the gravel and the shouts that echo all around him and all he can do is laugh and run and bite down on the burning fear that claws up his throat. 

He runs back home.  
(it’s not really his home) 

He runs along old familiar pathways, runs to the mother who drifts in and out of clarity, who tosses him into the jaws of the White Swallow and he just laughs as the alcohol enters his system like a waterfall.  
It’s easy to blend in, easy to dazzle and easy to charm.

(He doesn’t think much, only downs another swing of vodka before taking any and all orders, two lone appletinis sit on the counter of the bar and he blocks out the old familiar faces.) 

He counts the cracks on the pavement as he stumbles into the house that’s falling apart and collapses in the tent that he’s made for himself, the familiar darkness swallowing him up and it’s nice and calm.

Like static. 

iii.  
They crash into each other by accident.   
(Actually, that’s a lie. Lip tells Mickey where he was, and he should have known. 

Should have relocated, should have ran far far away, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with old flames, old rusted glass and porcelain that strike through him like putty) 

It’s mostly Mickey’s eyes that do the talking for him, skin paling and hands shaking, curling around the neck of the bottle that’s half drained already, and there’s a slight waiver in his step, as if it takes Milkovich more effort than usual to keep himself upright, to keep himself from breaking apart like a little kid, as if he was made of glass and Ian was a bullet that seemed to ricochet off the rim and shatter him in a matter of seconds. 

“Mickey.”

“Gallagher.” 

It’s enough, with the El rumbling up above them, tracks shaking slightly and there’s a small precipitation of dust that floats around them as they sit underneath the columns, and there’s nothing but silence and cigarette smoke that drifts between them.   
It’s a start, maybe.

(Ian can only laugh, can only remember the gravel digging into him, blood escaping his mouth, face puffy and sore and burning burning burning and he can remember Mickey’s retreating back and there’s enough venom in him to poison Mickey but he doesn’t do it, doesn’t poison him because it’s not fair, not fair that they have to run and hide who they were like scared little dogs, tails tucked between their legs. 

There’s a voice that slithers on through his head, one that laughs at him and says - _that didn’t stop you from running away from the army now did it?_ and he wonders what bravery is and if he’s even brave. 

He thinks he’s an idiot. 

Angry, and an idiot and he doesn’t know why but the voice just purrs and laughs at him and he watches the sunbeams flicker on through, listens to Mickey’s breathing that’s slow and steady and strained and the cold air seeps in between them and he barely catches it until he sees the cold air condense as Mickey starts to talk and it’s just one question, one simple question. 

“Why did you leave?” 

And suddenly he thinks of porcelain hands falling and cracking and the jagged little bits are tearing into his skin and he doesn’t know why, but there’s a laugh that bubbles out of him and he can’t stop it . 

 

iv. 

They sit until the sun sets and it’s only then that Ian can move and look at Mickey, and there’s some sort of clarity that appears on his face, some sort of puzzle that worked itself back to being whole again. 

“Thought I had it in me, to enlist early. Somewhere down the line, I fell through the cracks.” 

It’s quiet, and steady, but it’s the most calm that he’s been in quite some time. He thinks he can hear the gears clink and tick inside of Mickey’s head, but he doesn’t do anything, just nods once and takes a swing of the bottle of Jack Daniels that he’s been nursing since they crashed into each other. 

It’s a silent peace offering, at least for the moment but Mickey offers him the bottle and Ian takes it with a hum, takes a swing and he’s about to give it back to Mickey when there’s a movement and a little shaky breath that ghosts over his lips from him and there are a few seconds of silence that stretch themselves out and there’s a roar in his ears as the blood rushes through his body before he feels a pair of lips on his own and he thinks, he can swim above the sea of porcelain pieces, if for the moment. 

There’s the roar of the El above them as it rattles away, but it’s a start, with the taste of Jack Daniels on their lips and a quiet silence that stretches out into a smile.

They’ll figure it out, somehow. 

They have porcelain hands that are jagged and coarse, but they’ve survived this long to make the sunbeams dance along the edges filled with smoke and ash and blood, they’ll live for now, if that’s all that it’ll take for their hands to dance again.


End file.
